


What Remains of My Day

by P_stellaviatori



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 08:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/P_stellaviatori/pseuds/P_stellaviatori
Summary: You realize now that everything you had done, you had done for your Captain.





	What Remains of My Day

 

You straighten your back, zipping up your uniform and smoothing it against yourself before leaving your quarters. You pass your crewmates in the corridor as you walk toward the turbolift, some nodding in your direction, others offering a small smile or wave. Even after several weeks aboard this ship, you find the congenial nature of the Shenzhou crew rather odd, and certainly different from that of a Vulcan one. You come to the conclusion that it will regrettably take you more time to get used to it.

 

You reach the mess and order a cup of ginger plomeek tea and a small bowl of blueberries from the food synthesizer, taking them to a booth in a quiet back corner. The seat you have chosen offers an ample vista of the rest of the mess hall before you and you decide to partake in some mildly covert observation of your dining crewmates. 

 

You find yourself straightening your back as you catch sight of the Captain walking through the mess doors. While you have spent a decent amount of time in the mess hall since you first arrived aboard, although preferring the solitude of private quarters, you have still yet to witness the Captain appear in these parts. From a safe distance, you watch her take a seat with her senior officers at the center of the hall. The crew seems genuinely pleased to have her here. There is laughter, and some mild clamor, and plenty of lightsome chatter. You think in comparison how very unlike a Vulcan crew, and yet you find yourself almost enjoying the noisy company.

 

You observe for several more minutes, taking in especially the authoritative, yet blithe persona that is the Captain. Surrounded by others, she appears at great ease in this space, neither dwarfed by the large crowd, nor inflated by certitude or ego. When she speaks and when she gesticulates, all eyes and ears are hers. But when she smiles and when she laughs, it is the crew and their hearts that are hers. 

 

You move from your seat, placing your empty cup and bowl back into the synthesizer and walk toward the door. A quick, but irrefutable impulse to turn around has you glancing back, and you stand dumbfounded in the hallway. Your gaze catches the Captain's, and the warmest smile you have ever seen spreads across her lips, and her hand rises to sift through her dark, flowing hair, and your breath certainly hitches. The sliding doors close in front of you and the moment is lost, and you think to yourself, how _curious._

 

_____

 

You man the weapons tactical station on the bridge during the weekly training drill. Your attention is fixated on the console in front of you, sharp crimson lights flashing and blaring klaxons of the red alert completely disregarded. Reaching up with your fingers, you touch the glowing translucent monitor, pinpointing the location of a fictitious enemy fighter, and lock the Shenzhou’s phaser cannons onto the vessel. Call-outs from the defensive tactical station reveal that all shields are down to twenty percent, with forward shield down to ten, and hull damage on decks one through four imminent. The Captain, standing from her chair, shouts to divert all power to the forward shields.

 

You call from your post that you have a lock on the last remaining fighter, and when you hear the command to fire, you do so accordingly. You turn your head from your console to the bridge’s main viewscreen, and watch as the enemy craft is destroyed with a satisfactory explosion. Modest cheering erupts from the bridge crew, a quick high-five between the navigator and the helmsman, a soft fist-pump into the air by a junior tactical officer, and even a congratulatory nod from Ensign Saru at the science station. And the Captain, who sits with her back firm against her chair, applauds her crew with a gratified smile on her face.

 

You remain at your console for the post-drill evaluation, waiting as the Captain maneuvers her way around the bridge, assessing each station and its officer. In between refining your annotations and recording tactical data, you observe your Captain in preparation for her visit to your post.

 

You watch her at the communications station, pointing at some figure on the monitor and tracking a numeric reading, before ending the assessment with an affable gesture of placing her hand on Lt. Javier’s shoulder. You watch her proceed to the helm, nodding at flight data and affirming pilot controls, before favorably patting her hand on Ensign Vinn’s upper back.

 

You turn you head back toward your console before the Captain reaches your station. You stand to welcome her, and you come shoulder to shoulder as you begin reviewing tactical information. Inclining her head ever so slightly to the side, she inspects your data, lips pursed and eyes focused. At last, she appears satisfied, nodding her head in approval. You are about to turn in her direction when you feel a faint warmth at your lower back, a light pressure which you discern to be your Captain’s hand. You turn to face her, and the contact against your back vanishes, replaced by her congratulatory words and a small grin, and a tinge of longing imbedded in your chest.

 

_____

 

You raise your brow to a newfound high when your Captain asks you to spar with her. You have never refused a challenge to fight and you do not intend to do so now. You accept her offer and she smiles, and you must remind yourself to breathe.

 

You arrive at the training room precisely ten minutes early with the intent to prepare with some light exercise, only to find the Captain ready and waiting in the center of the mat. She faces away from you while doing leg stretches, wearing a standard issue black tank top and shorts, her hair brought up in a ponytail. You approach cautiously as she turns her head and nods in acknowledgement of your arrival, and you join her in preparation.

 

You find that you enjoy the quiet atmosphere, with a touch of anticipation, as you stretch calmly beside her. You then realize you have never been alone with your Captain outside of normal duty, and your mental ease slowly dissipates.

 

You let your Captain initiate combat and you follow her lead. Her form is impeccable, and you are not surprised by her speed and grace. While your training is in the Vulcan martial art of _Suus Mahna_ , you recognize many of the Captain’s techniques. You stand to guard, but she insists upon your move first. You reach forward to attack, but she easily maneuvers away. You bring forth your leg in a kick, but she deflects and diverts. You strike and you parry, but she seamlessly counters, and for now you appear to be evenly matched.

 

You pull back to recover your form, but she promptly enters your space and you falter. The flat of her palms impact your chest with impressive force, but your reflexes are quick and you grip her wrists tightly and draw her against yourself. You strain to pull her down against the ground with you, but you manage to succeed. You guide your weight and roll to your side as you fall, coming to a halt with your body atop hers. In a frozen moment, you are caught off guard by your Captain’s dishevelment and the heaving of her chest and the panting from her lips.

 

You soon find yourself supine, your back sweaty and sticky against the mat, and your Captain warm and heavy above you. Your hands are pinned at your sides, the wind pushed from your lungs, and your opponent grins. Positions now reversed, you recognize defeat. As she glances down at you, there is a light in her eyes, an assuredness on her face, and a sizeable smile that you cannot help but mirror.

 

_____

 

You stand before the door and ring the chime, and you hear a quiet voice on the other side and enter. You have never been here before, on duty or otherwise, and you sense your pulse is elevated.

 

You glance around carefully, mindful of remaining respectful toward privacy, but you find it difficult to stay wholly objective as you stand in the middle of your Captain’s private quarters. Music plays softly, with rich, warm tones, not quite sounding like anything you yourself have ever listened to, yet you find it rather pleasant. Your pupils adjust to the dimmed lighting, while your vision is drawn to the breathtaking view of racing stars through panoramic windows. You are certain the view is identical to the one in your own quarters, yet here in the Captain’s, with the sound of music drifting lightly in the air, it seems particularly exceptional.

 

You see the Captain standing busy beside the food synthesizer, gathering dishes in her arms, and you hasten over to help. Together you prepare the table for dinner, and you find yourself unable to withhold your curiosity regarding the music playing. You are led over to a peculiar looking device, evidently antiquated, yet intriguing all the same. A wooden turntable, a spinning vinyl disc, and the encompassing sound of what your Captain calls _jazz_ are now imprinted in your mind.

 

You dine amid light conversation, and you notice the jest in your Captain’s words when she tells you to stop mentioning work. Her light laughter fills the room when you say you will promise to try. You pour her a cup of jasmine oolong tea while enjoying some yourself, and you find yourself feeling strangely at ease. It is an odd sensation of both repose and calmness, and you cannot stop the small smile from forming on your lips.

 

You catch her looking in your direction, a hint of what you assume to be amusement about her expression, as she informs you that during private hours, it is acceptable to relax and enjoy oneself. You feel your skin begin to warm when she does not release your gaze, and you realize you are no longer full of calm.

 

You stand from the table, intent on politely ending the evening and saying goodbye, when a tender hand clasps your bicep and holds you still. Your confusion builds as your Captain leads you over to a shelf of orderly novelties consisting mainly of antique books and cultural relics from various points in Earth history. It is similar to what you have seen in her ready room, but you think likely more personal, more sentimental. She turns to you with a book in her hand, a personal favorite of hers. As she gives it to you, the book weighing nicely in your grasp and her hands now gentle on your shoulders, you are told to read it, keep it, and cherish it. The warmth in your body grows, diffusing from your core to your very fingertips, and you look down at the old and worn book in your hands. You feel the delicate touch of her hand at your neck, and your mind and body are all but stunned.

 

_____

 

You remain upright only barely, with your eyes wide and mouth agape. You watch the shuttlecraft explode before you, through the bridge’s wide window, and the air around you suspends and suffocates. You blink and force oxygen into your lungs before realizing vaguely that someone is speaking to you. They repeat themselves and as you process the words, you release a labored exhale. You rise from the Captain’s chair and head toward the turbolift, leaving the bridge in Lt. Cmdr. Saru’s command.

 

You sprint toward sickbay, ignoring the confounding looks of passing crew, and rush past the doors. You had been told that the Captain had been transported out of the shuttlecraft in time and transferred here for emergency medical treatment. You had not been given a preliminary diagnosis of her condition. Your composure is absent and your movements frantic as you scramble through the ward to where the Captain lies motionless on her cot.

 

You are told when you reach her bedside that she has been placed into a medically induced coma, having sustained severe head trauma, internal hemorrhaging and external injuries of varying degrees. You are gently pushed aside as more medical personnel enter the space and begin operating. A sundry of raised voices, urgent motions, and the acrid stench of blood fill your chest with panic and dread. All you can do now is step back, brace yourself against a cold bulkhead and wait.

 

You dismiss the passage of time to a far off place in your mind, and you are slightly surprised when you are told after nine hours of medical intervention that the Captain is now in stable condition. Your nonstop vigilance leaves your thoughts foggy, your arms trembling and your shoulders heavy with wear as you allow yourself to slump forward, face in your hands. You bear your fatigue and take timid steps toward the private bed at the dimly lit far end of the infirmary. You see a beautiful face painfully pale and sunken, and your heart fiercely aches. Closer you move, but you find yourself illogically fearful of disturbing your Captain despite her sedated condition.

 

You reach out with your hand, slow and deliberate, to thread your fingers gently through her hair which you find is soft and supple like you had always believed. Your hand moves to trace the side of her face, the tips of your fingers savoring the feel, and you tenderly cup her cheek, with your heart skipping a beat, maybe two. Warmth spreads from her skin to yours and the relief you feel is nothing like you have ever experienced. Before you can stop yourself, and before you can realize the import of your actions, you lean forward, tears welling in your eyes, and place a chaste kiss to the corner of your Captain’s lips. Your eyes flutter shut with your forehead pressed against hers, and you whisper under your breath, _Philippa_ …

 

_____

 

You stand in her ready room, sweat on your brow and desperation brisk on your tongue. You feel you have not adequately defended your views on this Klingon matter, and by failing to convince your Captain of your plan, you'll prove yourself correct. But you continue to try regardless.

 

Your usual posture, folded hands behind a straightened back, is forfeit as you now lean forward urgently with balled fists at your sides. Your mouth is seething and you begin to shout, and you know this is far from professional. You hear your own words reverberate through the air and ring inside your head, and for your behavior where you should feel shame, there is strikingly none. But you do find yourself dizzy instead, thoughts in a daze and your chest is painfully tight. You cannot help but stare at her, waiting, but her expression is so distressingly veiled. You feel torn by her silence.

 

You are shaking and your throat is parched and your vision now blurred. Within seconds, you have made the single worst mistake in your life and the most pitiful part is that you have yet to realize it. But after this moment, in the fog of the next few hours, the days and years to come, you will have all the time in the universe to remember and regret.

 

You pace in your cell, hands cold and your breathing deep, and your mind just ceaselessly races. You count the grains of rice in your meal, the number of sips it takes for you to finish a glass of water. Your cell is small, only four by four meters, so you sit on your cot with your back to the wall and close your eyes. You start counting the seconds.

 

You dream of people and places, and a time before now when it did not pain you to draw breath and live. In your mind’s eye, your life is reconstructed, moment by moment, feeling by feeling, an orphic retrospection you both welcome and reject. You see your ship, your crew, your missions, and the myriad of obstacles, challenges, victories, and defeats. You see the one person to whom you owe your life, and to whom you now serve your debt.

 

You see your Captain’s face, lovely and smiling, turn to you and hold your gaze, and your chest feels warm, but your skin searing hot, and the blush creeps up upon your cheeks. You see your Captain’s slender hand come to rest at your shoulder, sense the light squeeze of her grip beneath the fabric of your uniform, and your breathing becomes a matter of conscious control. You see your Captain’s body move as if to speak, but your vision is fixated on the soft curvature of her lips, and her words become muffled and indistinct to your ears.

 

You count these moments, these glances, and touches, and the closeness of body, and you fear you have neglected both Vulcan doctrine and the wisdom of your Captain’s words more than you are willing to admit. You say your emotions inform your logic, yet in the end your actions had shown otherwise. Logic tainted by concern, cautiousness corrupted by desperation, loyalty sullied by adoration. You realize now that everything you had done, you had done for your Captain. _For the love of your Captain_. And it had all failed.

 

You wake with your mouth dry and your eyes stinging with tears. Sitting up on your cot draws the last of your strength, and you bury your face in your hands as you weep. For now and for the rest of your days, you count the times your Captain had shown you humanity and affection, and the times you had squandered the chance to reciprocate. Her name, _Philippa,_ bittersweet on your tongue, a mantra coating your breath, and you think to yourself, _how had this gone so wrong_.

 

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
